“Oh my God, look at your face. You love her.”
—Prom Pact
Wes
I stepped under the showerhead, turning my face up and letting the hot water pour over me. I was one of the last guys there because I’d stayed late to talk to Ross after practice, so it was quiet in the locker room.
My muscles were sore, I was tired, yet I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
Because praise Jesus, after working my ass oP over the weekend, I was back. I’d
just spent an entire practice being Steady Freaking Eddie, as consistent as I’d ever been in my entire life. Pitching actually felt fun again today, mostly because my dad’s voice hadn’t whispered a single syllable as I threw strike after strike.
I hadn’t wanted practice to end.
Especially when Liz was there the entire time, 1lming me.
Sure, Clark was around, but that dude was taking random pictures of everyone.
Liz, on the other hand, had been primarily focused on me.
I knew she was just doing her job, but anytime she was in my world, I was happier.
I got dressed and was almost ready to take oP when I saw it. The starting lineup.
The starting lineup for Saturday’s exhibition game was taped up by the door.
My good mood was immediately wiped out by stress as I slowly walked over. Half the guys probably hadn’t even looked at it because it wasn’t a real game; who cared who was starting? The coaches were going to rotate everyone in and out, so it legitimately didn’t matter.
To anyone but me.
I inhaled through my nose and stepped closer, my eyes tracking down the list, looking for the pitcher.
“You up for it?” I heard from behind me.
“What?” I turned around, and Ross was leaning against the wall, looking down at his phone.
“We’ve got you down for the start,” he said, his eyes still on the phone. “And I just want to make sure you’re ready.”
“Seriously?” Normally I’d try to be cool, but it was Ross. I was beaming like a
goddamn toddler as I couldn’t stop myself from yelling, “You’re not messing with me, right?”
“Christ, Bennett, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he said, but the smile on his face was almost as big as mine. “It’s just an exhibition game—settle down.”
“I can’t,” I said, wondering why my throat was scratchy.
“I know.” He gave me a nod, like he was acknowledging the everything that the exhibition game meant to me personally, and said, “Just don’t do something stupid like busting an ankle or throwing out your arm before Saturday.”
“I won’t,” I said around a laugh, a little too close to happy tears for my comfort.
I pretty much sprinted out of there (after ripping the paper oP the wall and putting it in my bag because I knew my mom would want it), 1lled with a wild energy that gave me the urge to turn cartwheels all the way back to campus, I swear to God.
The second I was outside, I FaceTimed Sarah.
“What?” she answered, and it looked like she was walking to class. Or from it. She was de1nitely walking somewhere on campus as she said, “Why are you bothering me when I’m late to class?”
“Because I thought I should give you a heads-up that I’m starting Saturday, just in case you want to ditch Stanford to road-trip it down here and catch an
exhibition game.”
“Oh my God!” Sarah screamed, her face swallowed by that little-brat smile of hers. She stopped walking and said, “You’re starting, holy shit!”
“Right?” I said, still in shock.
“Did you tell Mom yet?” she asked, still squealing. “I doubt she can come, but she’ll want to know! Oh my God!”
“No, you’re the 1rst person I called,” I said, wondering if I’d ever be able to stop smiling.
“As it should be, Wesley,” she laughed, raising a knuckle to wipe the corner of her eye. “Gaaaah, I’m so happy for you!”
Sarah was one of the only people who actually understood why it was so important to me, which made it important to her, too.
It felt big for the Bennetts, after everything. It was a chance for a redo.
“Thanks,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’ll let you get to class, and I have some happy skipping to do that cannot be done properly—or safely—while holding a phone.”
“Yeah, you go. Safety 1rst. Later,” she said, laughing as she disconnected the call.
I was on cloud nine for the rest of the week, feeling like I’d passed some sort of test by getting the start. My mother bawled like a baby on FaceTime, which made me get a little choked up. It also made me remember the time I’d avoided FaceTiming Liz because I didn’t want her to see me cry, but no way in hell was I looking back at the past right now.
Not when there was so much to look forward to.
That forward-only vision was the main reason I gave a big old “hell no” to Lilith Grossman when she emailed again, asking if she could do a follow-up interview to the one Liz had already done.
She said she’d love to really delve into the amazing way I’d “overcome adversity.”
No fucking thank you.
I’d been a team player and answered Liz’s questions like a good boy, but I was hard-passing on anything more.
Especially when Liz wasn’t involved.
I pitched lights-out at all the practices leading up to the game, and by the time Friday night rolled around, I had a hard time sleeping because I was so excited.
It was 1nally here.
But the instant I woke up Saturday morning, I could feel that the stress was back. Every ounce of excitement I’d had was now replaced with fear. What if I fail? I laughed with the guys when we grabbed breakfast at B-Plate, trying a fake- it-till-you-make-it attitude as they acted like it was just a regular day, but my stomach was in a thousand tiny knots as I forced down a Bruin scramble and some oatmeal.
And as we rode to the 1eld in Mick’s car, I contributed to their inane conversation while trying to shut down my inner monologue that went something like don’t screw up don’t screw up don’t screw up.
I needed to get a grip, but it was like my brain was 1xated on all the ways this could go south. Getting the start had put one of my ghosts in the grave, but what if I screwed up? What if all I’d accomplished with the start was to showcase how hard I could choke in a game?
What if I proved to the coaching staP that they’d been wrong to give me this second chance?
“Why so quiet, Bennett?” Brooks asked as we did stretches on the 1eld. He was relaxed and grinning, his knee planted in the grass, and I was jealous of his energy. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say dick today.”
“Dick,” I muttered with a forced grin, working into shoulder rotations while attempting some deep breathing.
I looked out at the stands and inhaled slowly through my nose. It was a warm California afternoon, with barely a breeze, and a record number of fans had turned out for the exhibition game. The packed-out vibe at Jackie was electric, with music booming through the speakers as the snap of balls hitting gloves was like bonus percussion to the party vibe.
It was fall-ball perfection.
I let out my breath through my mouth, glancing toward where my sister was sitting with her feet propped up on the seat in front of her, a blue B painted on
her cheek.
God, she’s a cheeseball, I thought, and seeing her obnoxiousness somehow helped.
This is what I’ve been working toward, and I need to enjoy it.
I told myself that as I 1nished stretches, but as soon as I grabbed my glove and started warming up, my dad’s voice was all I could hear.
What was that, Wesley? Squirrely shit, I heard as I threw high and inside, just
as clearly as if he’d been on his feet in the stands the way he’d been at all my high school games.
Stop it.
I wiped my forehead as Mickey threw back the ball. It’s only warm-ups. Chill.
But when I threw a wild pitch that Mick had to chase, I started freaking out a little.
Because I was going to blow it.
No wonder you didn’t want me to come to the game last time, I heard my dad yell from the stands. Quit messing around and throw ’em the gas.
Dear God. He’d said those words to me—quit messing around and throw ’em the gas—no fewer than three million times over the course of my life. It’d been annoying as shit when he was alive, but now it was like nails on a chalkboard, mixed with a bloodcurdling scream.
I was obviously losing my mind when I couldn’t stop hearing my dad’s voice, right?
I took a deep breath, trying my hardest to concentrate on clearing my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to 1nd calm.
But I could only picture his face. Which kind of made it hard to breathe. I threw another pitch.
Mickey should punch you in the face for making him chase that trash. I looked
out at the stands, at the spot behind home where he’d always stood, but no one was there.
Of course not.
Because he’s dead, you psycho.
I was going to blow it, goddamnit.
